


No Good Deed

by readwitch



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readwitch/pseuds/readwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They clasped arms and parted and within moments Anya was dead, and Clarke was bleeding but with her people. There was always going to be a gunshot. The alliance would always begin with blood. But what if it went down differently. What if, when shots rang out, Anya was not the one first shot down because Clarke pushes her aside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The soft glow breaking through the trees strikes Clarke with a sense of hope she hasn't felt in a long time.

Not since she was a child and didn’t know any better. Since before she knew the truth about the Ark… before that truth took away her father and locked her alone in a bright, quiet hole. 

Not since that truth soured her relationship with everyone important to her. 

There had been brief sketches of that feeling since arriving the drop ship landed, but they learned quickly that problems feel faster than raindrops on the ground. 

      Drop ship landed: Great! But all the equipment is blown, two kids are dead, you're in the wrong spot, and everyone is acting like assholes.

     There is living fauna: Cool! It is definitely mutated and that might be a problem

     Crossed that first big hurdle: And Jasper has a spear in his chest.

The first day alone proved that every silver lining was defined by an accompanying dark cloud. The longer they were on the ground, the darker that cloud grew. But, for the first time, Clarke feels hope dawning, even as the sun sets. 

And just when it seemed like her fight was over. 

She had been all alone. The only people that knew she was alive (the only people she knew were alive) were trapped (happily) in Mt. Weather, and there was no proof that the Ark had any survivors. There was no sign of Finn and Bellamy, stuck outside the drop ship as she gave the order for slaughter. 

There was just her.

Clarke tries to be honest with herself. She knew was pretty. She knew she was smarter than she was pretty. She knew she wanted to help people and had a bit of a defiant streak. She knew she was fun. But, on the ground, she was learning so much about herself… much of it she really didn't want to know. Wanted to ignore and hide away from.

She was smart, but she was also manipulative and ruthless. Her brain moved quickly and easily spotted solutions that her heart wanted to ignore. When there was time, Clarke could explore other options, better options, first. In the middle of a fight…she acted as soon as the dots connected.

She had reached out and used Anya's weak spot, where Mt. Weather had left its mark, against her. And then she hit her until it was clear Anya was done. And then she hit her some more. 

She just couldn't stop. Tired. Defeated. Angry. So angry. She could rationalize it all she wanted, but Clarke had wanted to hurt Anya. Clarke had wanted to kill her. 

It was certainly her darkest moment. 

But somehow, in that mad moment, her attention was caught and pulled away by something, some sort of balloon, floating in the sky. Something that definitely didn’t belong. And if it didn't belong on the ground, it had to be her people.

Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared with faint sounds of gunshot echoing in the distance. But it had pulled Clarke back from the precipice, stopped her from striking Anya down permanently.

Now, after a long night trudging through dark, unfamiliar woods with grounder stumbling at her heels, Clarke feels a faint hope blossoming at the sight of the crashed remains of the Ark. 

She hadn't been crazy or wrong or desperate. Mt. Weather was bad. Her people were alive and here. The adults were here.

She could finally shuck of the reigns of responsibility.

As much as she had tried to rise to the occasion, it felt like every move she made ended in failure. She had never wanted to be a leader or make decisions; she just wanted to help. 

She had been telling the truth, that first day on the ground. She didn’t care who was in charge. She had never chaffed under others’ authority and had never ached to one day surpass them. If anything, she had believed and trusted in them too much.

But she had learned. She couldn’t trust those in power. Not easily and definitely not blindly. Her eyes would remain open and she would always question, always search deeper. She had grown too much to ever be the girl she once was...

But she could release herself from having to make the hard choices. With the Ark on the ground, it wasn’t even a matter of choice. Whatever façade of leadership she held would be stripped away from her, if she wasn’t so anxious to throw it away. She wasn’t like Bellamy. For him, it would burn, having adults passing judgment and orders.

For her, it will be a weight lifted to no longer be the one deciding life and death. Maybe it was a childish thought, but Clarke wasn’t quite 18… probably. 

It was hard, sometimes, to keep track. 

The last time she’d really believed that everything would be okay… well, it was before her Dad had gotten floated for sure.

But now, looking at the mess of metal and lights that would one day turn into a city, she thinks that maybe it just might be. Despite all the odds, they had finally made it to the ground. They finally had a chance; they just had to work for it.

Glancing over her should at the sullen but strangely docile grounder she had dragged along, Clarke thinks she has time for one more life and death decision before she’s free.

Maybe Clarke shouldn’t make a decision like this after the night she’d had. The adrenaline that had given her strength had long faded, and the comforts (and food) of Mt. Weather felt like another lifetime. She’s tired and aching, and every footstep is a marathon. Every movement pulls at the dried mud (and blood) clinging to her, pulls her open wounds desperately waiting to be treated. She figures it’s probably too late to avoid infection.

And that was going to be fun.

But, with the Ark in front of her, she knows that she can get treated. That she will survive and be welcomed back.

She has to make her decision now, because her suffering is nothing compared to Anya’s, who had been a tortured prisoner rather than beloved guest. Anya, who Clarke had saved and been saved by…who Clarke had bloodied and been bloodied by.

Anya, who had taken Clarke prisoner and was now hers. 

She had planned to take Clarke back to her people as some sort of consolation prize, and Clarke could very easily do the same. Anya, if broken, could be a fountain of information of the people they no doubt were heading to war against.

But her heart remembers Lincoln, chained and beaten for information he refused to give. Her people (her included) could be just as cruel as Mt. Weather. The cold, logical side of her whispers that they can’t fight two wars – and would the people of the Ark choose to fight for themselves or fight for those in the mountain.

And, despite everything, her instincts, the same ones that had recoiled at the affable leaders of Mt. Weather, tell her an alliance was still possible.

Every part of her agrees that she needs to make this last choice before she could head back to her people.

So Clarke turns around, turning her back on the Ark, and walks to Anya, who stiffens at her approach.

Good. Anya had been beaten, but Clarke needs her to be strong. Anya was probably hoping for a warrior’s death, but prepared for a cage. Clarke wasn’t planning to offer her either.

She grips the blade, ignoring the way Anya tenses. The grounder does not move away or struggle as Clarke pulls her bound hands close, only glaring with a sullen defeat. And, as Clarke begins cutting at the bindings, that changes to suspicion.

“I’m letting you go,” Clarke says, even if it is a bit obvious at this point. She keeps her face neutral and strong, needing her words to be understood. “I’m not weak, but I’m not like you. Our only chance against mount weather is if we fight together. To beat them, we’ll need our technology and your knowledge of this world. I know my people will help… the question is, will yours?”

Anya hesitates, obviously debating with herself if she was willing to take that first step… if her people would listen even if she did. 

Good. 

Anya had, so far, proven to be blunt and honest, if generally disagreeable. It meant much more for her to think about it then to just answer spit out an answer in return for freedom. 

“The commander was my second, I can get an audience.” Anya says slowly, without her normal arrogant confidence. Clarke knows this isn’t a promise of an alliance… but it’s a start.

Clarke takes a breath in startled relief, still feeling that lightness of hope, barely containing a smile. She reaches out her hand, and this time Anya meets her halfway. 

They grip each other at the forearm, different then the Ark, but the meaning is clear. Then they release and Anya quickly turns, staggering slightly as she marches away.

For whatever reason, Clarke feels obligated to watch her go. There’s an uneasy churning in her gut she can’t quite shake. Clarke likes to make the logical, smart choices. She listens, pays attention, and thinks things through. She’s always had a natural inclination towards impulsiveness, but she learned the importance of patience, planning, and foresight on the Ark.

That year in solitude really hammered in that lesson… 

Sometimes, though, she just can’t help but follow her instincts. Like on Mount Weather. Every bit of evidence pointed towards it being a sort of Garden of Eden for what was left of her hundred. But she couldn’t settle herself, couldn’t ignore her screaming gut.

And it turned out their little slice of heaven had been built on top of hell. 

Those instincts stir as she watches Anya walk away. She doesn’t believe Anya will turn back around and attack her. She doesn’t think watching will even give her a general direction of any nearby grounders. Logically, she should follow Anya’s lead and head towards the fallen Ark.

But Clarke can’t bring herself to turn away.

So when a little dot dances unsteadily on Anya’s back, she notices. Her instincts flinch, and Clarke moves before she even understands that she has a choice to make.

“Anya!” 

The call rips out of her mouth, and Anya tenses and turns. Clarke barrels into her just as she hears the loud crack of gunfire.

White-hot pain burns through her shoulder – distantly, she imagines it would’ve been Anya’s gut – and they’re both on the ground with only light foliage for cover. Clarke grunts as she pushes herself up, mind already quickly putting pieces together. 

She’d been shot – this close to the remains of the Ark, it was obviously them. She’d been shot because she’d jumped into Anya, so they’d been aiming for Anya. 

She didn’t have time to stop the bleeding. She had to apply pressure and stop the bleeding, but she didn’t have time. She had to make sure they didn’t shoot Anya. She had to keep the treaty alive. Had to save her friends. She had to check if it was a clean shot or if she’d have to get the bullet out.

She remembers Anya digging out the tracking beacon with her teeth.

Why are they shooting? They had no weapons. Anya wasn’t walking towards the structure. She wasn’t hiding in the trees, spying or searching. Anya wasn’t even facing the remains of the Ark.

Why are they shooting?

They have to get out of the line of fire. Clarke has to get them to stop shooting. Has to explain. Has to get to the trees and better cover.

Has to do something.

But she is already beginning to feel weak and light-headed, and Anya pushes her away, fire once again in her eyes and Clarke staggers backwards, falling to the ground. It is clear that betrayal springs quickly to Anya’s mind.

Clarke’s people are shooting at Anya – unprovoked at an unarmed, unknown grounder. Clarke has nothing to do with it, couldn’t have anything to do with it, but she will always bear a certain amount of responsibility towards her people.

Clarke leaping at Anya just before the shot probably doesn’t help. 

Clarke swallows roughly, gritting her teeth against the pain, and uses her hand to push against the bullet wound. Has to stop the bleeding. Anya’s eyes follow the motion – she’s ruthless and arrogant, but she’s not dumb – and there is a flash of understanding.

Good.

Clarke knows she should say something, has to keep the possibility of an alliance alive, but her mind is coming up blank. 

She’s not gifted with the ability to convince and inspire with words alone (not like Bellamy or Finn). It has always required action – proving that she was right, proving that she could and would – to get things done. The blood loss certainly isn’t helping.

Already, she is shifting away from burning pain to an uncomfortable numbness, and her mind is beginning to feel foggy.

It’s getting hard to think, and she gives up on the idea of finding some magic words to soothe the insult of being shot at. Instead, she staggers to her feet, fighting to stay get upright. Anya makes no move to help her, stays half-crouched in the grass. Covered in mud and blood, low to the ground, and in the hiding from the moonlight in the shadows of the trees, Clarke decides Anya is probably safe from the scopes of the guns.

Hopefully.

So Clarke turns in the direction of the camp.

She wants to raise her hands in surrender, but she has to stop the blood and her other arm won’t move.

It’s just hanging limply, dripping with blood.

She takes a hesitant step toward the camp when another shot whistles through the air, and the ground explodes close to her. She flinches from the shot, feet running backwards.

Her feet catch on something, and the only thing that stops her from meeting the ground face first is a rough grip on her uninjured arm.

“Come on,” Anya hisses, as she roughly pulls her away from the open land and towards the trees. Clarke stumbles along, willing to be lead.

Her people shot at her. She wasn’t a grounder and they shot at her. They must of thought she was a grounder so they shot at her. 

It made sense, considering how covered in blood and mud she was, but it still shocked her.

She was probably in shock.

Still, if she hadn’t been covered in all the muck, they probably wouldn’t have missed the second shot. In the dark night, and out of reach of the camps floodlights, her appearance must have made great camouflage. Her slight movement must have given her away and they shot before they were sure.

Sloppy. And a waste of bullets.

Anya jerks her through the tree line, their movements hindered by their beaten bodies and Clarke’s inability to just focus. And, of course, that’s when Clarke’s body decides to call it quits. 

One second she is stumbling along, barely managing to avoid running into trees even at their slow crawl, and the next she is kissing rocks. She can’t even figure out if she tripped or collapsed or even lost consciousness.

Anya wasn’t holding her arm anymore, must’ve let go to avoid being pulled down with her, but is quickly by her side.

“Gyon op!” Anya snarls, frantically pulling at her sleeve. Clarke fuzzily wonders why she cares, why she doesn’t just leave, but tries to obey. She can’t get any strength into her injured arm, so she uses her other arm, slick with blood, forgetting that she was supposed to hold it to wound.

She rises to her knees, before falling back into grass, the world swimming around her. The last thing Clarke sees before darkness takes her is Anya angrily glaring down at her.


	2. Floating on the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wakes up in an unfamiliar place surrounded by unfamiliar people who might mean her harm. Will this turn out better than Mt Weather?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, anyone rereading this. I crossposted with ff.net and, in the midst of minor editing for the second chapter, pretty much did a huge editing job instead. Ummm, enjoy!

 

Clarke is floating. 

Distantly, she wonders if she's dead. Like the grounders she burned alive. Like Wells, who had willingly suffered her anger and died for his father’s sins.

Like her own father, who was floated by his best friends…by his wife.

And now  _she's_  floating.

Everything is jumbled and fuzzy. If she's dead, it's hard to be too bothered by it. It's hard to be bothered by anything when she's just… floating.

But Clarke doesn't think she's dead, not yet. She's drifting in and out of pain. One moment she’s numb, bordering on pleasant, and then knives are peeling back her skin. It's scary, when she can bring herself to care, but it means she's probably not dead. Clarke's always thought that, if you were dead, there would either be no pain or nothing but pain.

So she just floats along... probably not dead.

Images flash by. Trees are everywhere, and they blur together as she floats past. At one point, there's water -  it's too much and she's drowning in it. There's light and she's burning in it. 

She's burning. Everything is burning. They need to cool her down. She mumbles the words over and over. She needs the water again. She wonders if anyone can hear her.

The shadows reach towards her, stroking and grabbing. The grounders she burned slink from the shadows, barely more than blackened husks made of bones and dust. Their hands claw at her, burning her just as she burned them. Clarke is burning in a ring of fire, and soon she'll be just ash and dust and shadows. It’s what she deserves.

She needs to protect her people, needs to save them, so she pulls away.

The hands grab at her, they won't let her go, and she kicks and screams and flails, but the shadows won't let her go. She's going to burn and the dead grounders will laugh at her. A hand claws at her shoulder, claws digging in her flesh. Another tries to force itself into her mouth, tries to suffocate her with ashes, but she grits her teeth and bites at anything that comes near.

She may deserve the torture, but her people need her.

She snarls and bites and scream, striking out with her limbs even as every action tears her flesh apart.

They scream back and abandon the fight, pushing her away. She can’t take relief in her victory, though, because she suddenly submerged in cool darkness and it takes her breath away. The darkness smothers flames pulling at her skin and she can't breath. 

She’s wet and cold and soothed.

She floats away.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, Clarke stops floating and settles back down to reality. 

She drifts in and out of a mostly sleep. She can’t remember where she is - knows it’s not home, but the sleep keeps her worries away. She’s under a blanket, there is a roof over her head, and that’s enough to keep any lingering worries from startling her into awareness.

Occasionally, murmured voices wash over her, the words indistinguishable. Rough hands jerk her awake sometimes, but it’s all a fuzzy dream. Rough hands belong to unfamiliar faces. Even half asleep, she recognizes them as grounders, but nothing can bother her in her dreams. They don’t speak in English, but she probably couldn’t make sense of it if they did.

Still, she drinks and eats what’s handed to her and allows them to poke and prod at her without complaint. She doesn’t have it in her to worry about what they are giving her.

She takes refuge in this foreign, blissful apathy, because some distant part of her recognizes that it won’t last.

And she’s right. After so many hours of blissful rest, she finally eases back into consciousness all on her own. The first thing she notices is the heat from the blanket sprawled over her body. It’s not too hot, just uncomfortable.

Everything is uncomfortable.

Her mouth is dry, her skin itches, and her eyes sting beneath her lids. Her entire body is filled with an aching soreness, her joints are stiff, her head is pounding, and her shoulder is on fire. Distant murmuring buzzes annoyingly in the background stirs her attention away from her body, and she finally gains some measure of clarity.

Her entire body tenses as she recalls the escape towards her people, but she forces herself to relax... to feign sleep. Despite her efforts, she can practically feel her heart pounding.

She can’t help it. She’d woken up in this exact same position 3 days ago…depending how long she’s been unconscious. For one panicked, frozen moment, she imagines she back there, but she can still hear the foreign murmurs in the room. It means she’s with grounders. It means she never made it to her people.

Clarke swallows roughly. She’s not there because they shot her. She can’t think about that, not yet. She needs to focus on the now, so that has to be a problem for another day.

She needs to figure out her next move, and that means figuring out if she’s actually physically capable of moving. Since she was shot and all. By her own people.

And, if she can stand on her own two feet, she can work on an escape plan. Hopefully without slicing herself up or threatening to murder everyone this time.

Except, she’s not in Mt Weather. She’s with grounders. She tries to shove the idea aside, at least for now, but maybe escape isn’t the right word. She definitely needs to end up back with her people, but an alliance with the grounders is necessary. Running screaming, or sneaking out in the dead of night, from their camp probably won’t help.

She pushes the thought to the back of mind, not forgotten just prioritized, and focuses on her body.

She shifts a little, mentally cataloguing her aches and pains, hoping to pass it off as restless sleeping. The result is not promising. Aside from feeling like one big bruise, her body’s response is sluggish and painful. Her muscles ache and each slight movement takes more effort than expected. She wishes she could actually look at herself, because much of her skin feels raw and scraped.

And, of course, the worst is her shoulder. There is a tight binding on it, so at least she knows it was treated, but there is still a pulsing ache echoing through her entire arm. Always the smart one, she tries moving it.

Immediately, the ache turns into searing heat, daggers ripping through her arm. Her entire body clenches, and her gritted teeth can’t bite back the pained whimper. She forces her mouth open, taking quick shallow breaths, trying to force the pain back to a manageable level.

That decides it, though, no escape attempt anytime soon.

She relaxes her body in the bed, as much as possible, listening to the quiet of her own quick breathing. And then, mid inhale, stops breathing as she realizes what that quiet means. Her _incredibly_ subtle actions had somehow managed to give it away that she was awake.

Yep, she’s a smart one.

She slowly exhales and opens her eyes, blinking against the bright light, to see two men looking down at her with flat expressions. Clarke, despite her recent failed attempt at movement, tries to sit up to talk with them. She uses her uninjured elbow to push herself, despite the creeping pain, but one of them stops her by gently setting a hand on her uninjured shoulder.

“Set daun,” he says calmly, voice gravelly but not hostile. His skin is dark, and he is built like most of the grounders Clarke’s seen but isn’t as tall as the other one. He is young, clean-shaven with short hair and a face littered with small scars. Despite his grizzled appearance, he has kind eyes.

His meaning is clear, but Clarke doesn’t want to appear weak. She doesn’t know a lot about them, but, if she’s stuck bartering for her freedom, she can’t appear weak. The second man, older with a short beard and a facial tattoo, glares down at her.

“Stay down,” He orders, as if her disobedience was because of a lack of understanding. His tone is harsh, and the way he’s looks at her sets her teeth on edge. Gritting her teeth, she relaxes back into the bed.

Once they seem satisfied that listening, the older one pulls the younger one away. Craning her neck slightly, and gritting her teeth against the pain, Clarke watches them make their way to a table against the wall.

The younger one, the one with the kind eyes and soft tone, is walking with a limp. Still, his motions are fluid and clean; she thinks it’s probably an old injury he’s long grown accustomed to. And, unlike most other grounders she’s seen, he doesn’t appear to have any tattoos. The other one is clearly in charge. And, judging by the multiple weapons he’s flaunting and his aggressive, he’s also a warrior.

Clarke figures he’s probably there as a guard, but, with her body feeling like it is, she wouldn’t be making any move to run off either way.

Clarke tries to remain unobtrusive in her study. She figures seeming aggressive, or even competent, probably won’t do her any favors right now, so she puts on her most docile face and keeps watch. She relaxes and lets her head fall back to the bed. Two seconds of holding it up and her neck and back were screaming at her.

She can’t see much from her limited vantage point, but she can see where aged, stone walls meet the ceiling. The room isn’t very big, and she can easily hear the two grounders, but none of it's in English. From the tone, though, it sounds like the leader is giving orders. When the younger one responds, the leader heads towards an archway covered with a curtain.

“Wait,” she calls, struck by a sudden thought. She arches forward to meet his gaze when he turns toward her, trying to ignore the fresh wave of pain.

“What?” he asks warily, looking at her with disdain. It was familiar at this point, but better than the creepy benevolence Dante had graced her with. At least disdain tended to be honest.

“Where’s Anya? Did she make it back okay?” Clarke keeps her eyes focused on his, trying to show the urgency of the question. She imagines that Anya is the only way she’d end up in a grounder tent, but her memory is more than a little hazy.

Anya needs to be okay. After everything they went through, they had finally managed to not want to kill each other…it just wouldn’t be fair for that to end with Anya injured or worse.

Plus, though she feels a little guilty at the thought, Clarke knows how fragile their tentative alliance. Well, fragile as in nonexistent… and Anya may be a deciding factor.

He doesn’t answer her, but his expression shifts slightly. Instead of looking at her like an insect he wants to squash, he looks at her like an insect he didn’t quite recognize. And wants to squash.

He shakes his head and leaves the room.

She struggles to get up a little, turning to see what the other man is up to and hoping he’ll answer her questions. Her eyes find him quickly, walking towards her with a cup in hand and an expression of exasperation.

Which was better than contempt and, honestly, completely justified. He had, after all, just told her to “set down” or whatever, and the worsening pain radiating from her shoulder told her she probably should’ve listened.

She settles back down with a huff and a groan, wishing she had been a little gentler with herself.

“Chil au,” he speaks quietly, setting down the cup on a nearby table. She almost smirks; the careful, slow way he is speaking almost makes it sound like he was telling her to chill out… which was strangely apt. She cranes her head to look at him, but can’t quite hold back a grimace. With a sigh, he reaches out to her and maneuvers her upward, setting a cushion behind her so she can sit up comfortably. Rolling with the motion, she manages to shrug off the heavy blanket as well. He takes that as well.

“Thank you,” she says, mostly from habit. Still, it probably doesn’t hurt to be polite. Especially to the friendliest grounder she’d met so far. Although, since he hasn’t spoken any English, he could’ve been insulting her with every breath and she wouldn’t have known.

He nods slowly at her, and Clarke frowns. Does he even understand her? She doesn’t know if all the grounders can speak English or not, but everyone she’d met so far had been bilingual. Still, he was he youngest she’d met so far…and the least war-like. Even when Lincoln had been pretending, she’d figured he could at least understand her just by the way he watched them and responded. This grounder seemed honestly clueless.

“Drein daun.” He picks up the cup and holds it out to her. She grabs it with her uninjured right hand, frowning at the unfamiliar grip. She was going to have to get used to using her right hand for everything. Just her luck to get shot in her dominant arm.

The cup contained some kind of heated mixture; probably a tea of some kind, and the heat feels nice in her hands. She inhales the steam, enjoying the soft, flowery smell.

“Thank you,” she repeats. This time it’s not a habitual response. She says it as clearly as possible while keeping eye contact, trying to squeeze as much sincerity as she can into the words. If he can’t understand the words, maybe he can still pick up on the emotion behind them.

“Sha,” he nods his head towards her. She recognizes it as a polite gesture, but she’s still not sure he got her meaning. Regardless, she nods back and takes a small sip of the drink. Oh…

Oh.

That is…not good. That is not good at all. She forces herself to swallow what’s in her mouth, but doesn’t bother trying to hide the distaste from her face. She turns a baleful look to grounder, who is actually laughing at her.

“Sha,” he repeats, grinning slightly. Yeah, whatever, real funny. She holds the cup out to him, not really in the mood for the disgusting brew, but he shakes his head.

“No,” he says sternly, one hand gently pushing the cup back towards her, “Drein duan.” He pantomimes holding a cup and lifts it to his lips, giving her a flat stare.

Well, that was clear enough. Clarke sighs, but drinks from the cup with small, petulant sips. She only just manages to avoid making a face at the grounder’s approving smile.

She needs to remember that she can’t act weak or irresponsible in front of any grounders, even one that seems nice. Not to seem paranoid, but they will be watching and judging her. Even as prisoner, and despite the patch she’s sure that’s exactly what she is, she has to be a good representative of her people. She is still working towards an alliance… that is, if her people shooting at them didn’t ruin that chance.

To think, she actually thought she was going to get rid of some of her responsibilities. That was just asking for trouble.

She takes another sip of her cup, a deeper one. The heat feels good rushing through her system, and she could even get used to the taste. She looks over at her grounder buddy and decides that, seeing as he seemed fairly ambivalent towards her, it was time to try and gain allies in the camp. Honestly, ambivalent was probably the best she could hope for as a starting point.

“So, I’m Clarke,” she points at herself with the hand holding the cup, frowning as she somehow manages to spill some from a half empty cup. “What’s your name?”

She makes sure it sounds like a question and points to him. He looks at her contemplatively, bringing one hand up to rub at the nape of his neck, before looking over to the entrance of the room. When he turns back to her, his expression is worried but excited. The thrill of doing something against the rules.

“Ai laik Dover kom Trigedakru,” he says, putting extra emphasis on Dover but hesitates, again looking back at the door. Clarke tries her best to commit the introduction to memory.

The recently named Dover grabs her empty cup and walks back to the table. She blinks, looking at her empty hand. She hadn’t even realized it was empty. She shakes her head, trying to get rid of the encroaching fuzziness.

What was in the drink?

Her head is beginning to feel a bit loopy, but at least her arm was feeling better. She could still feel an aching heat and could tell she didn’t want to move it, but it was manageable. Plus, it was only the actual injury that ached. The rest of her arm she couldn’t feel it at all… and that was sort of better. Best of all, the headache and muscle soreness had all but disappeared.

The main reason she already given up on any sort of escape was the pain, but that seemed somewhat manageable… except for her gunshot wound. Once again, she tries to move her bad arm, letting out a harsh gasp at the stabbing pain. She notices Dover quickly look over from the table at the sound, but busies herself by rotating and moving her arm.

She needs to figure out what her range of motion and how much strength she has. She’s only able to go through a couple motions before the pain becomes too much. Her harsh breathing and tense expression gives away her weakness, but at least she has some of the answers she was looking for… even if they aren’t what she wanted.

She was still frowning at her stinging arm when Dover limps back over, unease on his face and a fresh cup in hand. She takes the cup but lets it rest against her leg instead of drinking it. She appreciates the gesture, and the lessening pain, but whatever was in the cup was already messing up her mind. Here in the belly of the beast, she needed to keep her wits about her. 

Metaphors aside, she probably also needed to not compare the grounders to beast…that could be seen as insulting.

“Clarke.” Her name sounds weird coming from his mouth, she can’t put her finger on why. It’s the same word, but the way his mouth forms the vowel sounds make it sound foreign…and sorta like clock. It startles a giggle out of her. He looks a little concerned at the sound, but puts his hand on the cup she’s holding against her leg and gently pushes it in her direction. “Clarke.”

He’s clearly trying to sound authoritative, but he is young and quiet and something about him, out of the blue, suddenly reminds her of Wells.

She swallows hard and looks away, blinking quickly. It doesn’t make any sense, she’s been so good at pushing those sorts of thoughts away and he doesn’t look anything like…

What is in the drink?

She shrugs it off and looks back at Dover, who is still looking at her with something that, in the right light, could be interpreted as concern. She sighs, but tries to smile at him.

“I know, I know, drain done,” she says flippantly, but takes a sip. His eyebrows inch forward and he shakes his head, letting out an unimpressed snicker.

“Drein…Daun.” He enunciates the words one syllable at a time and looks at her pointedly. She looks at him in disbelief, but dutifully parrots the words back, trying to get the words perfect.

“Drein daun?” Dover actually smiles at her and she can’t help giving a dopey smile back, trying to add the words to her tiny grounder lexicon. She’s always liked learning new things. She takes another sip of her drink.

The idea of learning the local language is intriguing and pulls her mind away from her worries. It would certainly be a nifty skill when surrounded by them…especially if she manages to keep it a secret.

She wonders how much grounder language she could learn just through immersion. English had somehow become the official language early on, but the Ark was made of 12 nations - all had their own languages and cultures. Many families still passed on bits and pieces of their heritage, even all these years. Clarke’s family only spoke English, but knew a little bit of some of the other Ark languages just from being around people that spoke it.

She actually knew quite a bit of French…Wells had been fluent, and she had studied it in her spare time just so they could share something.

She pushed the thought away again, and refocused on Dover. Dover kom Trigedakru… No better time to learn than the present. She straightens up, not even realizing she’d be drooping. She’d prefer to ask about her situation, but her heads woozy. Plus, that’s a bit of a heavy discussion to have with someone who is no doubt still assessing her.

She didn’t even know if there is language barrier; he could just be playing dum. That’s what Lincoln had done.

“Dover, what’s… kom Trigedakru?” The way he said it separate from his name…she just wasn’t sure if it was part of his name or a title. He furrowed his brows and scratched at his neck, taking his time answering.

Her question was probably clear enough, and Clarke had a suspicion that grounders who were around warriors probably understood more English than they could speak, but he seemed to be having trouble finding words.

Finally, he straightened up with a proud smile. First, he pointed at himself with both hands in a sort of exaggerated fashion, and Clarke couldn’t hold back a smile.

“Dover kom Trigedakru.” Then he used both hands to point at Clarke. “Clarke kom Skaikru.”

He pointed at himself again “Trigedakru” and then at Clarke “Skaikru.” He started to make the motions again, but Clarke laughed and grabbed his arms to stop him.

“Stop, stop,” she giggled, “I think I got it. You’re Trigedakru and I’m Skaikru…like Sky-Kru. From the sky. So Trigedakru… that’s what you call yourselves.”

Still smiling, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Apparently, that was a bit too much English. She went to take another sip of the drink, but found her glass once again empty. It was sorta funny how that kept happening.

And she was really feeling it. Her arm felt better than fine, and Clarke felt great. She couldn’t stop smiling. And Dover was turning out to be great company. She didn’t know why she’d been so paranoid around him before… he was great.

She didn’t really have time to be lounging around, but even she wasn’t stubborn enough to force the issue when she didn’t know if she was in a healing room or a prison cell.

And she just couldn’t bring herself to care. Even if she was free to go, she wasn’t going to be able to move herself anytime soon. And, considering the camp had shot at them, she had to try and talk to the groun- the Trigedakru to try and salvage the alliance.

So she could save her people.

It was actually a good thing they had left her mostly alone. There was stuff she needed to know, of course. How long was she out? How badly was she injured? Where was she? Was she a prisoner? All very important questions.

But to get her answers, she’d need to have a meeting with someone important. She’d need to be strong and have a plan in place. She needed to have reasons to come into an alliance with the sky people…the Skaikru. And she was, especially in her state of mind, coming up empty.

It was all right, sitting her and chatting with Dover. He was easy-going, answered her questions when able, supplied her with some killer tea, and didn’t understand half of what she was saying. But she was in no position to deal with any leaders right now.

Of course, that is when the door opened, and the groun- Trigedakru! from before entered.

He was wearing some sort of mask, but she recognized the tattoo going from chest to forearm. Plus, he was wearing the same pants. Following behind him was a tall warrior with a long beard, a smaller, younger female who was not carrying any weapons, and …

“Anya!” Clarke pushed herself forward, trying to sit up as straight as possible for the meeting. It took some effort, but the noticeable lack of pain was a relief. “You’re okay.”

She smiled at the older warrior in relief. The events after getting shot were a little fuzzy. Clarke knew her situation was bad, but it would have been much worse if Anya had been seriously injured.

“Of course.” Anya looked at her a bit weirdly, before her face snapped into familiar disdain. Even her voice dripped with contempt. Clarke lost her smile and barely held back a pout. Sure, they weren’t best friends or anything, but she sort of thought they had bonded after beating the crap out of each other.

Clarke spared a glance over to her buddy Dover, but he was carefully not looking at her…traitor. The other man who had been there when she woke pulled him to the other side of the room, where they both stood tense in a soldier’s stance.

Clarke huffed and looked back at Anya and the two others. The man with the beard was glaring at her, but the women stood apart from the other two. She carried a pitcher and, though her stance was much meeker than the others, she did not appear quite as tense.

Anya stepped forward past the other two, and Clarke refocused on her. Hopefully, she’d get some answers.

“Clarke of the sky people.” Clarke’s brow rose at the formality. She had the sudden urge to show off her new knowledge and correct sky people to Skaikru, but suppressed it. Barely. She had to remind herself that these people weren’t her friends, and she had to keep every advantage she had.

“My people have extended a generosity towards you. Your wounds were great and distance far, but we carried you and healed you. You live from our mercy.”

Anya’s gaze was severe and intense, so Clarke gritted her teeth and nodded. Obviously, this was more show and tell than question and answer.

“300 warriors burned at your command because of a war you started. You have brought even more invaders from the sky to infest our lands. But, you…” she stops, clenching her jaw, “You also helped me to be the first of my people to escape the mountain. With this, I am able to spread the knowledge of the atrocities of mountain men to my people.”

Clarke watches carefully. She wants to speak, to argue against the accusations, but Anya is glaring meaningfully at her. It is not time yet. This isn’t a conversation. Though she wears contempt on her face, her words are pretty diplomatic…for her anyway. The entire speech seems planned…deliberate. So Clarke pushes past the fog in her mind and tries to pay attention to every word.

“It is because of this that my Commander grants you more honor than you deserve. He will speak with you, despite the treachery of your people. Away from your people and under our mercy, it is him you must convince. Him you must plead with. The fate of your people rests you.” Anya holds Clarke’s stare, trying to gift some sort of understanding.

Clarke goes cold at the words. They’re blunt and honest…and completely terrifying. This rush of responsibility, for a seemingly impossible task no less, is the exact opposite of what she’d wanted. But she rallies. Clarke can’t let herself panic, can’t fail.

Especially when she can see some hidden meaning in Anya’s gaze. There is something there, something important, but Clarke just can’t see it yet. It’s obvious that, despite the gunfire, Anya must have spoke in her defense. And, now, her look is laced with significance.

Figure it out, it says. Don’t let me down.

But, then again, maybe she’s imagining it. She wants there to be more than disdain and contempt between them. She felt that, in those final moments, there was a connection. But, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she’s seeing something that isn’t there.

The commander, the older, burly guy, steps forward and, with a few words in their language, sends Anya out the room. She looks back only once, looking from Clarke to the commander, and then she’s gone.

The commander towers over her, glowering at her with something that resembles hate. He looks every bit as dangerous as Anya, but bigger and older. Every thought goes out the airlock.

She remembers the first time she tried to be diplomatic, trying to get the crowd of delinquents on her side…remembers Bellamy winning them over with only a few words.

She remembers the long walk over the bridge to meet with Anya for the first time. Remembers being terror and responsibility and being alone. She remembers the failure that ended in bullets.

She looks at this commander and can’t think of a single word to say, a single argument that could to even start dialogue. Every word Anya spoke about her commander, her people, buzzes through Clarkes mind. She examines every past meeting with grounders, every insignificant thing she noticed. She wasn’t given much to work with, but something about this situation doesn’t sit right. She tries to push through the fog, the answer is on the tip of her tongue.

The girl meekly pours them both a glass of water, and Clarke can’t help but wonder why she was brought into the room and stayed, even as Anya left. Surely Dover or the other man, still standing at attention, could have poured water. Maybe the commander could’ve even poured his own water.

His...

Clarke snapped to attention as the commander opened his mouth. It didn’t matter if she was terrified. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t find any words. She needed to handle this. Everyone in the mountain was depending on her.

Everyone was always depending on her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who is reading and commenting and giving kudos. The next update probably won't be as quick. I've got to work out the timeline because right now is when a whole lot of stuff should be happening. Regardless of if Clarke had made it to Camp Jaha, we've got Finn's massacre, Kane and Jaha's meeting, and Lincoln needing serious medical attention and those all have to be tied in soon.
> 
> BUT up next we have Clarke pleading her case to "The Commander" and getting to experience a stint as a political hostage. 
> 
> Also, don't worry if you don't like OCs, Dover probably won't be hanging out. I just needed the body. Originally that was going to be Lexa, getting a handle of the situation as Clarke woke up. But I wanted someone more honest to settle Clarke a little bit. And to accidentally give her a bit too much "tea"


	3. By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke meets the Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so in this chapter, Clarke is not nearly as doped up as I wish she was BUT she is more than she appears do be from her POV. Like, you know when you're drunk and everything you say seems completely rational and understandable and your volume is fine...but none of that is true. That's sort of Clarke. She's also really good at seeming fine. SO unfortunately, not quite as fun as I wish I could do.
> 
> BUT! Anyone that wants to add doped up Clarke in the comments feel free.

Chapter Three

 

By Any Other Name

 

“Clarke of the sky people.”

 

He stands head and shoulders above her, a bear of a man. Like most of the grounders she’s seen, he’s covered in scars and tattoos. His hair (and beard) is styled in braids. He also seems older than Anya, which meant…something.

 

When he looks at her, it is with intelligent, unimpressed eyes. They remind her of Anya the first time they met, not angry yet, but still hostile. He doesn’t like her.

 

What else is new?

 

“Anya has told us about you… and your people. Reckless invaders, stomping around as if the land was yours. Crying like children when your actions have consequences.” He says condescendingly, with no respect in his gaze. He expects excuses and begging, but she’s already decided that’s not happening.

 

Appearing weak wasn’t an option. Would that first meeting with Anya would have gone differently if she’d been stronger and more aggressive? She’d acted like the weaker party, begging for scraps, and they treated her as such. What she needed now was a confidence, maybe even arrogance, in her words and actions.

 

She could do it. Arrogant and aggressive, she just needed to channel Bellamy…or even Raven. She sticks out her chin, puffs up her chest, and tries to adopt the stone face of the warriors around her.

 

“We’re _not_ invaders, we’re refugees. Our home was dying; we’re just trying to survive,” she spits forcefully, not looking away from his accusing eyes.

 

They had no choice but to leave the Ark; she won’t feel bad about surviving. She won’t let herself.

 

“You burnt down an entire village with no provocation. You’ve yet to answer for that crime.” That had caught her off guard last time, and Clarke feels herself deflate a little, but tries not to let it show. It hadn’t made sense then and she still doesn’t understand how it even happened. The flares had to be seen from the Ark, so yeah they were big… but they also had to travel far. They should have burnt up long before they fell from the sky, and certainly and incredible distance away.

 

That’s not an answer that will help her. Despite her uncertainty, she doesn’t drop her gaze.

 

“That was a mistake! I get that our apologies mean nothing. I get that we can’t take it back. But you didn’t come seeking reparations. You were just looking for an excuse for war.” Clarke tried to keep her voice steady, but decided she needed a physical edge as well. She pushed herself to the edge of the bed and swings her legs over the side.

 

She’s a little short for the move, so she has to inch closer to the edge until she can gently rest her toes against the ground.

 

Her shoes are missing. What did they do with her shoes? She looks up to see the commander staring at her. Maybe she should ask him about the boots.

 

No, wait, she was in the middle of something. He looks like he’s about to start talking, so she cuts him off.

 

“Stop! Just…I keep hearing how we started this war. But we weren’t on the ground for an entire day when one of my people were shot with a …javelin thing and used as bait. I spent days over his moaning body making sure he didn’t die. Hearing the rest of _my people_ wanting to put him out of his misery. That was you starting it.”

 

Her words were roughly thrown together, but her tone was scathing. The anger was sudden, but violent.

 

Her people were underfed, malnourished, craftsmen who could barely hunt, and there were less than a hundred of them. The grounders sent three times that number to kill them.  Three times as many skilled warriors who treated the woods as a second home. And then they were angry that, when backed in a corner, they fought back.

 

How dare they!

 

She just… _needs_ to get up. She needs to get in his face and _make_ him see. She struggles forward again, remembering what she was trying to do before, and pushes herself of the edge of the bed and to her feet. She wavers slightly, but there’s no pain. She keeps her good hand on the edge of the bed to keep steady.

 

“I’m sick and tired of being told that we don’t deserve to just survive. Or that we’ve done some sort of huge offense by not just lying down and dying once we got here. How dare we not just submit to slaughter from your 300 hundred warriors? How dare we fight back?”

 

He looks unimpressed with her words, and it just makes her angrier. She takes a couple of staggering steps towards him, trying to ignore the way the world shook with each step. It made it hard to focus on him, but it was easier the closer she got.

 

“If you want someone to blame, don’t look at me. You sent _300_ warriors to massacre us a bunch of kids. You can’t blame us for fighting for our lives however we could. It’s cause and effect. If you want someone to blame, look to who issued the order.”

 

He stands up straighter at the words, angrier than she’s seen, and she suddenly wants to sit down again. But her anger is still very strong…and she’s sort of far away from the bed now. She can’t turn her back on him and she’d probably trip over her own feet backing up.

 

She’s aware that she’s not thinking clearly, but she’s not stupid. This is probably the stupidest thing she can do right now. Anya was very clear with her super vague meaningful look. This was Clarke’s one chance.

 

But here she is, screaming at someone that grounders look to as a leader, frustrated tears burning her eyes. Yeah, Clarke is very disappointed in herself. But she just can’t hold the words in, can’t make herself act like a diplomat.

 

She feels like shit, and she’s sick of being attacked. Sick of being misunderstood and demeaned and alone.

 

Sick of everything.

 

And none of her fancy rhetoric or logic makes a dent. They just don’t seem to care. They’re right and she’s wrong but maybe, _maybe_ , if she can just say it loud enough they’ll eventually hear her and get it through their heads.

 

She’s not the enemy. She never wanted to be, her people never wanted it, and the people from the Ark certainly aren’t looking for a fight.

 

…Except, they shot her for absolutely no reason; maybe they are looking for a fight.

 

She clenches her jaw and maintains eye contact – she won’t even blink if that’s what it takes – but the grounder just looks at her with defensive anger. Like she’s not speaking for the lives of probably hundreds of people. Like the idea of all those deaths – hers and theirs! – don’t even matter to him.

 

Frustration swirls like an angry storm, and she worries that she can’t seem to get a handle on herself. She can feel herself shaking, feels a hopeless knot growing in the pit of her stomach.

 

She takes a breath.

 

He steps towards her, eyes evaluating, and she’s glad Anya left before Clarke opened her mouth and ruined everything.

 

“Anya said you were worth talking to, sky girl, but I see she was mistaken. She failed to destroy your kind, but we can still clean up her mess. What we sent after you before is nothing.” He speaks slowly, it still sounds like he’s talking to a child. She had been trying to calm herself down, but every word he spoke just riled her up.

 

The way he spoke of Anya, who was supposedly his mentor, just stunk of disdain. If this was their commander, Clarke’s people had less luck than she’d thought. Because, when she imagined the person leading the grounders she’d imagined someone, well, smarter. Less thick headed, maybe.

 

Also, she kind of thought it was a woman.

 

Still, she needs to think before she speaks. Develop some measure of diplomacy, especially if the leader is as short-sighted as he appears.

 

“Bullshit!” …Whoops.

 

“What you sent after us was nothing? WE were nothing. We weren’t soldiers; hell, we weren’t even civilians. We were child prisoners. They sent us down here thinking we’d die. We were expendable to them, cannon fodder, and we destroyed a group of your warriors more than three times our size. Our leaders and engineers and actual warriors are here now; what do you think they’re capable of.”

 

She doesn’t say how the hundred survived off luck. Or that she has no idea who or how many survived the Ark crash. After all, though he tries to hide it, she can see the tension spread and can tell she hit a nerve. She doesn’t want to ruin that.

 

There’s a sort of heady rush involved in shaking up a grown man three times your size, like the first time she shot a gun. She tries not to revel in it. He certainly doesn’t let its stop him.

 

“Is that a threat, Clarke of the sky people?” Before, there had been clear disdain in every word. He spoke to her like she was a child and looked at her like she was vermin. But now there was definite hate edged into his words, and he looked at her with careful consideration. That look made her want to look away, take a step back. It made her wish, not for the first time, that somebody else were here with her. Instead of her.

 

He was looking at her like she was a threat.

 

She swallowed harshly, picking her words carefully. She actually looked away from him as she decided what to say, all to aware that it would make her appear weaker. Which might be necessary.

 

It was easier, in the beginning, to predict the actions of the 100. She knew what made them tick. These people were outside her understanding; she just didn’t get them, and that made it almost impossible to pick the right move.

 

But one thing she knew for sure, she couldn’t have them see her people first as a threat. They needed to be strong enough to earn their respect, but not their fear. Alliances based on fear never worked out well; someone always flinched first.

 

“I’m not threatening you,” but she can’t back down, “I’m answering you. We respect your strength and don’t want to fight you. We’ve gone a long time without any conflict. We don’t thirst for slaughter…we just happen to be very good at it.”

 

She tries to keep her voice steady and calm, but can feel it waver. She clenches her eyes, briefly, and pushes the world away.

 

“I… hope you can understand. If you force it, we will fight. That doesn’t mean we want to. Your people know so much more about this world…knowledge that we could use. Just as we have stuff we could share with you. Even if our presence is so offensive that you’re willing to throw away our knowledge and resources, there can still be some sort of peaceful solution found.”

 

The room starts to spin a little, but she grits her teeth and finds a fixed point to level her stare. She takes a couple of quick swallow breaths, trying to settle the sudden nausea. She has to get through this, though; her people need it.

 

He clenches his jaw, no doubt preparing some insulting rebuttal, and Clarke knows she has to finish quickly.

 

“If there must be bloodshed, then let it belong to who really deserves your hate. Let it belong to the mountain. If you’ve been talking to Anya, then you know they have your people. Whatever slights my people have accidently inflicted on yours, it pales in comparison to what the mountain has done. The mountain has held you hostage for too long, and my people can help.”

 

She finishes, feeling oddly out of breath and totally drained. The room is still swaying gently, but she’s fine. She’s said her piece, put all her thoughts on the table, and now the ball was in their court.

 

She’s fine.

 

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking; the man who proclaimed himself leader even though she knows it’s not possible. He was looking at her, and she could only hope he wasn’t expecting more words.

 

What else was there to be said?

 

But everyone – her interrogator, Dover and his friend, and even the girl – was looking at her, waiting for her next move. And, in that moment, she suddenly knew what that move was…unfortunately.

 

The world blurred around her and the knot at the pit of her stomach she’d kept swallowing back decided enough was enough. She took a step backwards, stumbling, and looked around the room in panic. One step forward and she was on her knees, retching violently.

She doesn’t know how long it takes to empty her stomach, but it feels like forever. The acid burns her already sore throat and she can feel the sharp sting of tears. Eventually there is nothing left and she’s left dry heaving, choking and gasping for breath. She sits on her knees, crouched over her own mess with only one shaking hand stopping her from falling face first into it.

 

It’s probably the worst first impression anyone has ever made in grounder history.

 

Nobody ever called Clarke Griffin a coward, though. She struggles to push herself to her feet, and is surprised when a strong grip roughly pulls her to her feet. She stumbles, but the hand keeps her steady. She turns her head just in time to see the girl walking away.

 

She orients herself again, feeling a bit more clearheaded. The room isn’t spinning and her focus is back. She swallows nervously, grimacing at the less than pleasant aftertaste, and looks to the grounder commander.

 

She moved away from him the second she realized what was happening. As expected, his expression is one of extreme distaste… but he quickly turns his gaze on Dover, who inexplicably is about a foot closer. The man stomps over to him, keeping a good distance from Clarke, and begins speaking to him in rushed grounder-speak.

 

He’s not yelling, but he is definitely angry. Unfortunately, he’s not telling Dover to drein daun, so who knows what he’s saying?

 

She feels a rough touch at her elbow, and visibly jerks. It’s the girl again. She’s holding out a cup with what looks like water, although Clarke notes that she’s as far away as she can possibly be and is still managing to arch away from her. And her vomit.

 

Yep, a great first impression - Clarke kom skaikru, bringer of vomit.

 

She takes advantage of the moment to observe the girl. She probably around Clarke’s age, which probably means she’s an adult to the grounders. Clarke remembers Tris, Anya’s second, who was much younger and already learning to kill. This girl, however, doesn’t look anything like a warrior.

 

She’s not wearing armor for one thing, and is lacking any sort of weapon. Her hair is not braided like most other warriors she’s seen; instead pulled back with a raggedy cloth, and her face is bare of any war paint. In fact, the only thing that would separate her from looking like one of Clarke’s people is the tattoo visible on her bicep.

 

And, while she might not be a warrior, she doesn’t look mistreated or fearful of the others. She’s not large, but Clarke can see some muscle definition, and there are no bruises or lacerations. Clarke’s not going to call her harmless, not with eyes gleaming with a wary intelligence, but she does take the water. Her mouth is disgusting.

 

“Thank you,” she says carefully as she takes the cup. The girl nods at her with none of the hesitation Dover had shown trying to interpret her words. Her eyes flit back and forth between Clarke and the commotion in the background, bringing it back to Clark’s attention.

 

Dover is looking fearful, and Clarke needs to understand what is happening. She assumed he was just venting or telling Dover to clean it up, but it looks more serious. She inches closer to the girl.

 

The girl leans away but doesn’t actually move when Clarke gets closer, eyes snapping to her warily…prepared. Still, there is hesitancy in her movement. Her head tilts downward and her shoulders hunch forward. Clarke doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

 

There is a puzzle in front of her, but she can’t quite convince the pieces to fit together.

 

“What’s going on?” she questions, keeping her tone respectful and her voice soft. She doesn’t actually know if she’s allowed to speak to the girl, remembers Dover’s fearful looks earlier, and doesn’t want to get in even more trouble. “What are they saying?”

 

The girl doesn’t move, but her eyes shift over to the action, but quickly move back to Clarke.

 

“If the Commander wanted you to understand, they would speak in your language.” The words are quiet but curt. More importantly, they’re in English. Another piece falls into place.

 

“Maybe, but whatever it’s about, I’m sure I’m too blame somehow. And if Dover’s getting yelled at because of me, then I need to help.” The girl’s eyes turn back to Clarke, suddenly intense.

 

Shit. She used his name, which meant he gave it to her. Which meant they’d been talking. Clarke ignores her mistake, pretending she didn’t realize she’d made one, and looks pleadingly at the girl.

 

The girl stares at her, clearly considering her words. Though her eyes are hard, there is an unexpected softness to her face. The girl swallows and her eyes drift away for a second, looking at the men again, before settling back on Clarke with a certain amount of resolve. Clarke smiles amiably, trying to show she was trustworthy. She can tell she was winning her over.

 

“No.”

 

Clarke blinks at the one word reply, her smile dropping. She opens her mouth to offer some sort of rebuttal, but snaps it shut. She’s not looking at Clarke anymore, focused on the others, and Clarke snaps to attention when Dover suddenly has a sword pointed at his throat.

 

 

“This is not happening,” she says forcefully. She carefully stalks over to them, heedless of the girl trailing behind her, and places herself between Dover and the sword.

 

“Move, sky girl, unless you want to be gutted along with him.” The words are a sharp growl. The glint in his eyes tells her he’s serious, but that just means she’s the only thing standing between Dover and a blade. She should, for the sake of the alliance, stand aside and let this savagery happen. She doesn’t know Dover, not really, and maybe he did do something wrong…

 

But he was nice to her when he didn’t have to be.

 

“No.” Proud of the way her voice didn’t waver. “I’m not letting you hurt him.” She feels a little bit steadier on her feet. Either the adrenaline pumping is having an effect or she got rid of some of the toxins in her system when she threw up. Probably a bit of both.

 

“This is none of your business, sky girl. Step away.” He takes a slow step forward, his sword moving to gently rest on the right crook of her neck. She doesn’t falter.

 

“Yeah, I losing my lunch and you immediately going after him is a complete coincidence.” She can feel the sharp edge of the blade, but she’s come to far now too give up.

 

“It is none of your business what my soldiers do or how I punish them when they disobey. You are _lucky_ to be alive, but I could fix that for you.” Briefly, Clarke focuses on the girl standing behind him, watching the scene. Her face is blank with maybe the slightest hint of curiosity. Before Clarke can make any sense of it, she moves out of Clarke’s eye line.

 

It’s unlucky. The way Clarke had originally placed herself, she could see all the grounders except Dover… now the girl is somewhere behind her, and Clarke is unsure of what she’s doing back there. But, she wasn’t carrying any weapons, and Clarke can only focus on one thing at a time.

 

“Well, that’d be a waste, since you worked so hard to keep me alive.” He’s gritting his teeth, and she can tell he wants to press just a bit harder. How is she not dead right now?

 

“That is exactly the point, sky girl. Exactly why he must be punished.” His eyes focused behind her, just for a moment, and then he pulled away his sword, but didn’t sheath it. “You would have never survived the trip here. Fate smiled upon you when Anya found our healer in the woods and patched you up. He was needed elsewhere, but said all you needed was rest and herbs. This _boy’s_ one job was to prevent you from hurting yourself, and instead he gave you enough drink to make you sick. I see little use in saving you, but when you die it will not be because of stupidity.”

 

Clarke didn’t know how to respond to that. _I see little use in saving you…_ she wasn’t winning them over so far, which wasn’t great. Still, this was the most he’s spoken, and it answered a lot of questions. But she didn’t really have time to think any of it over, not considering the more pressing concern.

 

Okay, whatever Dover gave her made her sick, but she’d only had two cups of it. If the kid wasn’t a healer but felt comfortable making the drink, then it probably was used often. Which, generally, meant it wasn’t very potent. Her mind quickly went over the few facts she had, trying to make a solution out of nothing.

 

“That’s not fair. You said you don’t have a healer right now, how’s he supposed to know what will hurt me or not?” She’s fishing, and she knows he knows. But, for some reason, he’s playing along so she’ll see how far she can push it. From the clench in his jaw, probably not that long.

 

“He’s in training. If he is ever to be of use to us, he should know by now how to make the drink and how much to give.” She smiles…well, internally. It is probably best not to really smile right now.

 

“He probably does…for your people. Mine are different though. Maybe we metabolize it differently because of our different upbringing or maybe it just hits us harder because of a lack of tolerance to your pain medication. I can’t testify to the strength or potency of the drink, but he only gave me one cup.” She hopes Dover’s wearing his poker face. Still, the little white lie is worth it as the man in front of her falters, just a bit. He may not have understood all the words she used, which was a bit intentional, but he understood that last bit.

 

“I’m a healer for my people. Some people are just sensitive to certain remedies. Some people are allergic. There are many different reasons I could’ve had a bad reaction – hell, it could even just be from my injuries. But, it’s not fair to blame Dover.”

 

He’s angry. His eyes are boring holes into hers, his stance is tense, and his grip on his sword is turning white. But, he looks past her for a minute and then slowly nods. The sword returns to the scabbard and he calls out a couple words in their language.

 

He turns without sparing Clarke another look and marches out of the room. The two guys, Dover with a quick, tentative look in her direction, trail after him.

 

She lets out a sigh of relief; grateful the confrontation is over, even if she’s unsure how it ended. She turns around and sees the girl, who really needs a name at this point, staring at her. Of course, they wouldn’t leave her along. She’s got to have some sort of babysitter.

 

Her babysitter, however, is much like Dover. She doesn’t look like a warrior, doesn’t have weapons, and walks with a limp. It’s weird that she would be left in charge of her considering what happened with Dover…but maybe they don’t want to waste a warrior on her.

 

She wonders if, in their culture, it is a bigger insult to be babysat by a non-warrior or to be babysitting a weak sky person.

 

Whatever the case, there is one huge difference between the girl and Dover. She was able and willing to speak to Clarke in English. And Clarke had a lot of questions.

 

However, she wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would carry her, so she hobbles over to the bed. The girl followed her over and even helped her settle into the seat, though the look on her face was anything but pleasant.

 

“So, what did you do to get stuck babysitting me?” Clarke was ready to get some answers, especially now that some of the pressure was off. The girl gave her a cool look, stepping away from her as soon as she was settled in.

 

“You shouldn’t have questioned The Commander. You embarrassed him in front of his people. The boy could very well be punished worse for your insolence.” She deflects the question, chiding Clarke in a disapproving tone.

 

“Then he must not be a very good leader.” Clarke mutters, taking pleasure in the way the girl’s posture stiffens in offense.

 

“Why would we want to ally with the sky people if they insist on involving themselves with our leadership and insulting us when questioned.” Clarke deflates a little, but doesn’t completely back down. Maybe the pressure is less, but Clarke very quickly put together that not all is as it seems. This girl may not have the influence to back up her attitude, but Clarke doesn’t either. Clarke is running on bluff and bluster, so she needs to be careful with her words, no matter the audience.

 

“I’m not –” she lets out a huff of air, organizing her thoughts, “I wasn’t involving myself in your politics or your punishment. I wasn’t trying to question him… I was trying to give the full story. He didn’t have all the information, he’s not a healer. I am. A good leader works with the information they have, but doesn’t turn down information for the sake of pride. And any leader that punishes their own people because an…interloper embarrassed them? Not a good leader.”

 

“But you lied to him, how can he believe the words of a liar?” For someone who didn’t talk much before, this girl is awfully chatty now. And, honestly, despite her need for answers, Clarke’s exhausted. Still, this is an accusation she can’t let stand…not if she wants an alliance.

 

“I didn’t lie. I am a healer and all that stuff I said was very possible. I’d need more information to figure out the cause -” The girl shakes her head, cutting off the stream of words.

 

“You said he gave you one cup. He’d already confessed to two. Your stories don’t match, so one of you is lying. If it’s him, then he deserves punishment. If it you, then The Commander cannot trust sky people.” Her eyes are cold, a hardened green which would be very pretty under normal circumstances.

 

Right now they’re just terrifying. Clarke swallows nervously. Stupid. That was what she was. Just…so stupid.

 

She takes a breath. She got caught in a lie. This isn’t the first time this happened to her. She’s just got to be smooth and use her words.

 

“I…” well, go big or go home, “I would say that he was probably telling the truth. Things have been fuzzy since I woke up and the drink made it worse. I don’t even remember finishing the cup. I’m not exactly at the top of my game right now.” She notices the eyebrows furrow. “I just mean – I’m not at my best. Two cups was too many.”

 

“You’ve said much today, should we not take any of it to be true.” There’s a lilt to her voice; Clarke’s pretty sure she’s being mocked. But she’s also running out of options. She huffs.

 

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. There’s a difference between making a bad judgment or hazy memories and deliberate, malicious lies. The cups thing wasn’t important to me, so I didn’t bother remembering…everything else I said was the truth. I probably didn’t even have it in me to lie at the time, at least not so extravagantly.” Angrily, she makes to cross her arms, forgetting that one of them was injured. It didn’t really work out, and she aborted the graceless, painful gesture after a brief struggle.

 

Instead, Clarke just glared impotently at the girl, who tilted her head. With a considering look, she spoke.

 

“When children begin training, they are often given one or two cups at the end of the day. Adults, too, but only to relax. The drink is not potent enough to do much more than that. The commander was not questioning if you were given too much, but rather if you were slipped something.”

 

Oh. That…is possible. Clarke doesn’t know the normal effects of what she drank, but she doesn’t think Dover drugged her. He didn’t spend very long making the drink, didn’t seem worried or excited as she drank, and was too open with her. Clarke doesn’t imagine the grounders are the type to use subterfuge. And…wait.

 

“So you weren’t giving me something for the pain?” She asked, a little offended. The girl blinked at her.

 

“That is what you are concerned about?” she asked incredulously.

 

“I’m just saying,” Clarke says, leaning back against pillow propped against the wall, “You guys didn’t even put my arm in a sling.”

 

She’s feeling a little more relaxed now. The pain is returning, but she’s feeling more grounded and it’s manageable. Plus, she can talk to this girl; maybe get some answers, without worrying about dooming her people to a slaughter.

 

“You did have a sling, but it was hastily made. You pulled it apart when you first arrived. There was an attempt to construct a new one, but, as you said, we are not healers. You wouldn’t let anyone near you without thrashing around and hurting yourself more.” The girl looks unimpressed. Clarke doesn’t remember any of this, but remembers the nightmares. She can imagine what she must’ve been like.

 

“Oh.” Well, at least they tried a little. Having someone watch over her makes more sense now as well, if it was to make sure she didn’t injure herself. “Well, if you give me some wrap, I can probably make myself one. I’m a healer, you know.” The girl tenses her jaw, but moves over to a nearby bench to grab some materials.

 

“We do know, Anya informed us and you have told us multiple times. It is a valuable skill.” She walks back over and drops the items on the bed. There is a look in her eye; Clarke can’t place it but it makes her uncomfortable.

 

For now, though, she ignores it and starts to work on the sling.

 

“So, what’s your name?” She asked as she struggled to tie everything together. Working with one hand was bad enough, but it was especially awkward with her non-dominant hand. But, now she had something to prove.

 

“You should worry less about me and more about what you can tell the Commander to obtain an alliance.” Clarke rolls her eyes, but doesn’t look up.

 

“Well, tell me your name and that will be one less thing on my mind.” It’s bothering her not to know, especially since this girl was apparently here when she arrived and has talked with Anya. It means she’s probably a bit more important than she appears. Clarke assumed, the way she followed the man around, that she was a personal servant or the grounder equivalent of a secretary… but maybe she got it wrong.

 

Not a warrior, but maybe someone the Commander consults with on matters. Her age is confusing, but Clarke won’t pretend she understands grounder culture. It would explain why she was still here; Clarke could tell when someone wanted information.

 

And considering the situation, it was probably best to roll with it.

 

The girl is quiet at first, just watching her fumble with her would-be sling, but eventually she answers.

 

“My name is Lexa,” she says tersely, and Clarke smiles at the curt tone. She looks up and meets Lexa’s eyes. The girl is outright glaring at her. Clarke chews her lip, thinking, and then smiles again.

 

“Ai laik Clarke kom Skaikru,” Clarke says, stumbling a bit over the unfamiliar words. She hopes they’re right. The girl, Lexa, drops the glare and furrows her brow uncertainly. Clarke figures she’s wondering how much Clarke knows, if Clarke understood what they were saying before.

 

Like she’d give up that advantage know if that was the case. Still, Clarke figures it’s better to put her mind at ease.

 

“Was that right?” she asks with a smile. Still uncertain, Lexa nods slowly.

 

“How much trigedasleng do you know?” she asks calmly. Clarke shrugs her shoulders, ignoring the twinge of pain.

 

“Pretty much that and drein daun.” Lexa nods again, looking a little more comfortable.

 

“Tell me, Clarke kom Skaikru, what do hope to do here?” Clarke goes back to fiddling with the mess of fabric in her lap.

 

“I don’t really want to do anything here. I want to go home.” She doesn’t look up.

 

“Do you not want to talk terms? Anya said you wanted an alliance with the Commander, was that not true?” Clarke sighs to herself, wondering how best to explain this.

 

“I do. Short term, we both want to take down the mountain. Long term, I want my people to live without constantly fearing attacks. But I can’t do that yet. I need to get to my people first.” She picks up the fabric mess and begins trying to settle it around her neck.

 

“Why? A strong leader must always be ready.” And this moment right here is why she can’t negotiate just yet. Talking to the man was almost entirely bluffs and posturing, and maybe she could get through with just that, but a strong alliance can’t be built on that. And he was so ready for a fight, there was no way she could explain what the actual situation was like without losing ground. Lexa is asking calmly, looking somewhat uninterested – a front Clarke won’t call her on – and Clarke is okay explaining.

 

“I know you were listening before; I wasn’t lying. We were prisoners sent here, and, yeah, I became the leader of them. But they, my people, are _all_ trapped in Mt Weather. The ones that just came down won’t see me as a leader.” Lexa watches her struggle with her sling, contemplating her words.

 

“Then what use are you to us,” she finally says with a frigid tone. Clarke sighs; at least she’s not talking to the Commander.

 

“Like I said, I need to get back to my people. Right now, I don’t know how many or who made it down. I don’t know what are resources are. I don’t know what we have, exactly, to offer. But I know my people. I know how they react. And, while I don’t know who survived, most of the people in power know me. They respect my family. They won’t follow me, but they’ll listen.” She tries not to think of her mom, who’s most likely dead.

 

Last she’d heard, her mom had been caught in some sort of explosion. If Jaha was still in charge, though, he’d listen to her. She couldn’t stomach him, not after everything that had happened. Still, Jaha had always been close with her family. That, and his guilt, would at least get him to listen.

 

Lexa is still examining her, weighing her words. Finally, she steps closer into Clarke’s space. She gazes down apathetically, but Clarke doesn’t flinch or move away. Lexa reaches out and gently adjusts the sling, helping Clarke get it on.

 

Then she steps away, and only then does Clarke breath.

 

“The mountain men are a fearsome enemy. You are…wise to look for help. But your people reach out a hand while holding a knife in the other. They sent an emissary out to speak with us while shooting at Anya and you. I will see what he has to say, I will find out the answers to your questions, and we will see what happens. For now, you will stay here. I will have some food sent for you.” Her words catch Clarke off guard.

 

“Wait, what do you mean by emissary?” It’s not that they have one of her people here, but emissary implies that they know about the grounders, more than the garbled bits over the radio. The only people who could tell them that were her people, Finn or Bellamy or… It meant that someone survived!

 

Lexa doesn’t answer her, turning to leave, and Clarke can’t let her, not yet. She jumps to her feet, stumbling slightly, and staggers to the Commander. She needs to stop her from leaving, but knows better than to grab a grounder. Instead, she moves in front of her to block her exit.

 

“Wait! Please, what do you mean?” she asks desperately.

 

“Move.” Lexa gazes at her dispassionately. Whatever game they were playing before, it’s over now.

 

“No, you can’t just say that and leave.” Lexa takes a step closer. She could just step around her, but Clarke can tell Lexa would rather go through her. The air is heavy with tension, and Lexa looks at her with a challenge.

 

“Move.” She says it again, cold as ice. Clarke swallows.

 

“Lexa, please. You don’t have to tell me anything. Just ask him if any of my – if any of the dropship kids are with them. There were some who didn’t make it inside and I…I just need to know if they’re alive. Please.” She knows she sounds weak. She spent so much effort trying to be strong in front of them, but strength would be a challenge. She has nothing to offer. There is no reason she can hide behind. She just needs to know, and if she has to debase herself, has to plead for it, then she will.

 

Lexa’s expression flickers, just a bit, but she doesn’t move away. She looks away and grinds her teeth before turning back to meet Clarke’s pleading gaze. And just when it seems like she’s going to answer (hopefully something other than move), her head jerks so she’s looking over Clarke’s shoulder.

 

Right afterward, Clarke can hear a flurry of stomping feet, and she turns around so that she is facing the doorway. Lexa brushes past her, moving to stand in front of her.

 

The man from before, the one calling himself the Commander, stomps in flanked by two guards. Their faces are lined with hate and they are practically shaking with fury. The two guards glare spitefully at the floor while the man starts spitting words in grounder at Lexa.

 

Clarke can’t see Lexa’s expression, but she can tell it’s not a pleasant exchange. Lexa’s hands tighten into fists as she starts talking back, just as quickly, and Clarke is completely lost. But she can feel the growing tension. The man glances at her, expression dripping with animosity, and turns and leaves.

 

The guards don’t.

 

Lexa turns quickly, and Clarke almost shudders at her scowl. Without any warning, she clutches Clarke’s good arm, tight enough to make her wince, and drags her out of the room and into a long stone tunnel.

 

The pace is too quick, and the only thing keeping her on her feet is Lexa’s painfully rough grip pulling her along. She wants to ask what’s going on, but her recent adventures took their toll, and she’s already gasping for breath.

 

They pass by a bunch of rooms before Lexa is pulling her up a short flight of steps and into sunlight. She gets a second reprieve, just long enough to see a camp filled with warriors and tents, before Lexa is on the move again. In the openness of the area, she can see the man from before moving in front of her and the guards following at their side.

 

They stop outside of a tent identical to all the others, and Clarke finally gets a chance to catch her breath. Lexa lets go of her arm and marches inside with the big guy. Clarke moves to follow her, but one of the guards grab at her bad arm. Clarke pulls away with an embarrassing yelp, but gets the point. The guards stay with her.

 

It is only a moment later that Lexa exits the tent, while Clarke is rubbing her arm crossly.

 

“You have said you are a healer,” she says, scowling at Clarke, “Now is your chance to prove it… and to repay a debt.” Clarke stands frozen as she looks at Lexa. This feels like déjà vu. She remembers when Anya and Tris and failure.

 

But last time she could use both arms. Last time she didn’t have any lingering fuzziness. Or pain. And she still failed.

 

“I don’t know - ” she starts.

 

“Quiet.” Lexa cuts her off, voice little more than a growl. “I don’t care what you know. Your people, the one you fight for so passionately, snuck into a peaceful village and massacred almost everyone. The few survivors are inside, including the healer who saved your life. I’m going to speak with your people’s emissaries, and you are going in that tent.” It is not a request, so Clarke nods.

 

“The guards will stay in with you. The tent is stocked, but they can get you whatever else you need. Nyko is conscious and can answer questions if necessary.” She walks past Clarke without another glance, and the man from before who called himself the Commander falls in line behind her. She sighs as she watches them go, the final piece clicking into place.

 

She is pushed roughly in the back and almost falls forward, barely catching herself. She finds her balance and turns around, scowling fiercely at the guard who pushed her forward.

 

“I’m going, and I will do my damned best to keep everyone alive. But lets get one thing clear; I’m injured enough already. So use your words and be ready to help.” Without another word, she turns and enters the tent, head held high.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! This was the chapter that just would not end. I had an idea how I wanted it to go and it took 3 pit stops and missed a turn. But I figured out some of my timeline stuff. Next chapter will explain a bit how Clarke survived and what Clarke missing meant as far as the Finn Massacre went. I even think I figured out how to save Lincoln! Probably!
> 
> Thanks for reading as always. Hope you enjoyed. Hit me up on Tumblr if you'd like. I'm readwitch there too.


	4. Cleaning Up Messes (Making More)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke does her best to clean up after her people, but she could always just be making it worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while. I wrote up about half the chapter soon after #3 and then it just sat... until yesterday when I just felt inspired? So sorry about that, and sorry if there are any obvious shifts in tone or continuity errors because of the long time between writing mid-chapter. Let me know if you notice any.
> 
> Thank you for the continued comments and kudos as this sat collecting dust. I really appreciate all of them or any messages on my tumblr. They definitely helped me feel up to continuing this story. There are some upcoming plot points I'm having a hard time working through and I never really know how my stories will end when I start them, thus the wait, but I will try and get there for you guys.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

On the Ark, everyone had a purpose. Every generation was half the size of the previous, less when you consider the people floated, and there was always something that needed to be done. Clarke had just sort of fallen into medical. She practically grew up in the medical bay, and she wanted to help people and make a difference. But she was never passionate about it.

 

She never loved it.

 

Still, Clarke’s smart and driven and good with her hands. You don’t have to be passionate about something to be good at it. And, while she’s not a prodigy like Raven, she’s good at what she does… especially when you consider she’d only really started her apprenticeship. Life on the ground taught her to be grateful for what she learned, but it’s also made her hate it, just a little bit.

 

Because life on the ground is war, and war is a healer’s worst enemy. She isn’t needed for sniffles or sprains or the flu. Instead she gets gaping wounds, internal bleeding, and spinal injuries. Even when she’s not the one fighting, she still has blood on her hands. And, not for the first time, she finds herself in way over her head.

 

She enters the tent with the guards hot on her heels, as if she’d attempt to run now. The tent is darker than she’d like, but brighter than she expected. Still, it doesn’t appear to be set up as a medical station. There are no cots, just two prone bodies lying on blankets in the middle of the tent. Off to the side there is a bench with some basic supplies and a small chest.

 

She hurries over to examine the bodies.

 

One is a man, probably around her mother’s age, who looks like most other male grounders she’s seen. He is bulky, bearded, and sporting a number of tattoos and scars. The other is a young girl with short, dark curls who is way too young to be covered in blood.

 

But she is. They both lay on sullied blankets, gasping for breath and clutching at their wounds. And Clarke recognizes the wounds; knows her arm was left in a similar state. Which means this was the work of her people.

 

Her first impulse is to run over to the child. She’s smaller, has less blood to lose, and more life to live. She’s _just_ a child.

 

And Clarke remembers Anya’s second, Clarke’s first failure.

 

But Clarke is _smart_ and knows better than to let her heart make decisions over her head. Lexa told her that the man is the healer that helped patch her up enough for Anya to bring them…wherever they are. And if they are having Clarke work on him, then they must not have another healer… at least not nearby.

 

Which means he is valuable. He’s the priority.

 

He’s also conscious and a healer, so she grits her teeth and makes her way over to him first, kneeling down next to him. He looks up at her with pain lining his face, but she can make out the distrust and anger. She accepts it, but she really hopes he is smart enough to work with her and not stubbornly make this entire process difficult.

 

“My names Clarke,” she says as she takes stock of his injuries, gently feeling along his bruises and the haphazard, makeshift bandages. She ignores the spark of recognition, the way his pained expression tightens. She pushes down on his uninjured shoulder when he tries to sit up and continues talking. “Lexa says you’re a healer, so I’m going to trust your competence and honesty; will you be alright if I work on the child first.”

 

The healer – Lexa called him Nyko – stops fighting against her and looks at her with a weary expression. She wonders if he’s judging her sincerity or judging her for asking. He could be judging her for wanting to help the child first for all she knew. But, after a few seconds that drag for centuries, he gives her a slow nod, easing back on the ground.

 

“I did not carry her all the way just for her to die,” he says, voice raspy and dry, “If my injuries did not kill me on the trip here, they will hold.” And he’s right, as far as she can tell anyways. The wrapping is messy, but seems to have slowed the bleeding. His wording worries her, but she’d been given the answer she was hoping for (the permission she feels she needed) so she doesn’t think twice and rushes to the girl.

 

She tries to separate herself from what she’s looking at (like her mom taught her) but it’s hard when the girl is so young and there is so much blood. She can tell Nyko bandaged her as well, but it’s just as messy, and she can tell that some of the blood is fresh. A lot of it’s fresh.

 

Clarke takes a deep breath, centering herself, and springs into action.

 

The “supplies” Lexa mentioned is contained in the two chest, but it’s not as stocked as she’d like, and she needs Nyko to stay conscious so he can decipher the unfamiliar herbs. She sends one of the sneering guards out for water, the lack of which is baffling, but he returns quickly enough. She takes the bucket and sends him for more.

 

Nyko, despite her protests, pulls himself up enough to watch over her shoulder as she works. Despite all the blood, the situation could definitely be worse.

 

Once she was able to really look at the wound, after clearing away a lot of the dirt and blood, she can tell that Nyko spent a good deal more effort on the girl’s bandages than his own. Which is a relief, since the smaller body has a lot less blood to lose and Clarke isn’t adequately prepared to deal with  the girl going into shock. After all, last time she tried to introduce blood transfusion to grounders didn’t work out too well.

 

She cuts away at the bandages and, upon finding no exit wounds, has to dig around for bullets. Every whimper and groan eats at her, but she knows what needs to be done. Luckily, Nyko is able to point out some herbs that they use for real pain relief, but they aren’t nearly as quick as morphine or some other drugs. But, by the time she is finished stitching up the wounds, the girl is off in dreamland.

 

It makes setting a bone and working on some mild burns much easier. Again, she needs some help from Nyko in figuring out the proper mixture for treating burns and preventing infection, but he seems satisfied with her work overall. Maybe even impressed.

 

She doesn’t try to weasel out any information about what happened, not yet. The fact is, despite her burning need to know, she is still on display here, still trying to make an impression. That means being serious about healing the grounders and not making any mistakes that could later be chalked up to a wondering mind or not taking the situation seriously.

 

But, when she moves on to work on Nyko, making sure to keep an eye on the child as much as possible, she decides to bend that rule just a bit. After all, Nyko’s wounds are much less severe – mostly amounting to one serious graze and some light scrapes and burns. Plus, she doesn’t want to seem like she doesn’t care at all, and she can even pretend she’s thinking of Nyko. It is, after all, good for him to be focused and talking.

 

He’s sitting up, watching the way she stitches up his leg wound, when she starts talking.

 

“I was told you are the one that helped me in the forest,” she says, and it’s not quite a question. His eyes don’t stray from her hands.

 

“Yes.” Like most of the grounders she’s met, he’s not especially talkative, but she takes it in stride.

 

“Thank you.” He grunts in response. She holds back a sigh. These injuries are because of her people; she can’t expect sunshine and rainbows. Honestly, considering the young girl she just stitched up and the abstract idea of a village full of young kids not around to stitch up, she lucky to be alive right now. She wishes, though, that he’d take some of their pain killing remedy. He didn’t want to fog up his mind when there was work to be done – and she certainly understood that! – but maybe it would open him  up a bit.

 

“I…” she falters for a second, grasping for words to make a bleak situation at least somewhat better and failing, “I was also told that these injuries are from my people.”

 

She doesn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on her stitching. But she can feel the tension radiating off him, can see the effort it takes to not move his leg.

 

“The murderer is from your clan,” his voice is barely more than a low growl, “and was pointed at the village by one of mine.” Her eyes flick to his, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he is not looking at her and she keeps quiet.

 

Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth; weighed down by questions she doesn’t know how to ask. How did this happen? Who did it? Why did they do it? But, if she asks these questions it will sound like she’s looking for an excuse. If she asks these questions, she’ll be looking for a reason to choose her people. And why would they know the answers anyways? Nobody storms a village, introduces themselves, and gives a full explanation of their actions.

 

She finishes his stitches in silence. It is only when she starts working on his burns – spreading on some ointment Nyko pointed out that she hopes fights infection and covering with bandages – that she finds her words. Or, well, one words.

 

“Why?”

 

She doesn’t know why she asks. She already came up with _so_ many reasons not to, but her day (or days) is finally catching up to her. The little herbal tea (she’s guessing it was actually some sort of opiate, but doesn’t have the same sort of experience as Monty to figure anything more in depth) has long since worn off, and her arm is back to feeling like it is on fire. Her entire body is sore and tired.

 

She just once a straight answer so she can figure out where she stands, figure out what she needs to plan for. She’s tired of being constantly on edge, even in the mountain, and maybe _maybe_ she can just get a little bit of it sorted out.

 

The gunshot wounds were clear, and she doesn’t doubt that it was her people using those guns, but there has to be more to the story than some sort of massacre. There has to be some sort of reason.

 

He doesn’t answer right away. He closes his eyes and works his jaw, and she wondering if he’s pretending she never spoke up. But eventually, he answers her in a low, gravelly voice that doesn’t hide his anger.

 

“You are not the first sky person I met in the forest. The one before you was brave and fought for one of mine. When Anya found me, I healed you because it was ordered of me. But I asked no questions. If I had, maybe things would be different.”

 

He opens his eyes and looks at her and, for the first time, she sees something other than anger in him. She sees sorrow. She finishes bandaging the burns.

 

“What do you mean?” she asks. She buries the tremor in her voice, hiding behind a false confidence.

 

“They were looking for you, those who attacked the village. There were two of them, and they started burning down the village before we even knew they were there. The one called the other Finn, and he was the one who asked for you and raised his gun when we had no answers. He thought we had you captured, refused to see the truth in our words.”

 

She freezes. It feels like her heart is leaping out of her throat. Nyko closes his eyes again and very slightly shifts away from her.

 

She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the ache of her shoulder, and staggers over to the girl, looking at her wounds. All this was done for her, in her name, by the boy she…

 

She didn’t love him. She wasn’t lying when she’d said as such to Raven. She didn’t know him enough to love him… but she could’ve. He was the only person who really reached out to her, who had her back first, aside from Wells. Finn had no real reason to follow her, to stand up for her, and he seemed so kind compared to the harsh world.

 

He had a gentle soul…how could he have shot a girl so young, burned up her home? For Clarke?

 

He wouldn’t! It wasn’t in his nature. He was the first one to look for a peaceful solution with the grounders. He wouldn’t do this, they must’ve misunderstood…or, or it was somebody else.

 

It was bittersweet, in a way. Whether or not Finn was responsible, the fact that they knew his name meant he was alive, that she hadn’t killed him when she set off the dropship engine. But knowing that he did this – or at least that the grounders believed he did – put a damper on her relief.

 

The girl was so small. Clarke added another blanket on the little body, hoping to somehow stave off shock. What she needed was some sort of blood transfusion probably, but Clarke didn’t know how much she lost and, unless she was actually in immediate danger, the risk of the blood getting rejected was just too great.

 

With hesitant, shaking fingers, Clarke reaches out to gently push wipe away some of the dirt and grime from the girls face with a wet towel. Her eyes burn with tears, and she lets them fall, aware that this might be the last bit of solitude she gets. This young girl – not a warrior or a fighter or anything other than a _young girl_ – deserves the tears.

 

She deserves so much more than that.

 

So Clarke lets the tears fall, but doesn’t make a sound. She keeps her back to Nyko as she keeps watch on the girl’s condition, slowly cleaning away all the grime ash and blood that’s visible. Then she double-checks the wounds, re-bandaging and applying more ointment as necessary.

 

She doesn’t know how much time passes. She’s so tired and, after a while, she just starts going through the motions in a sort of haze. But eventually she hears people approaching, shouting just outside the tent and the stomping of feet, just before the shuffle of the tent flaps opening.

 

She hurriedly wipes away any evidence of tears, hoping whatever is left can be mistaken for tiredness, before she stands, turning around to face them. Absently, she notices Nyko pushing himself up so he is sitting to face them.

 

It’s Lexa, but she looks… different. Her hair is done up in braids now, and she’s wearing armor and a long red sash that trails behind her on the ground. Perhaps most striking is the splash of black around and streaking under her eyes, darker and more defined than she has seen on any of the others.

 

The man who claimed he was the commander is standing at her side, slightly behind her, along with what can only be guards.

 

It’s not like everything suddenly slides into place. Honestly, she can’t even pretend to be shocked at her appearance or their very deliberate placement, though she does wonder if shock was in their intent. Somewhere along the way, all her little stray thoughts formed a theory – about Lexa and the unnamed man they claimed to be commander. Even with her brain fogged up, she wasn’t stupid. But she’s not some sort of grounder expert, and her brain _was_ fogged up. Whatever theories and thoughts she may have come up with, she wasn’t going to put them to the test.

 

So she’s kept it to herself. Yeah, she could tell almost immediately the man was some sort of red herring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t important or deserving of respect. And  Lexa was obviously important and more than she appeared. Considering the subterfuge involved, it isn’t too hard to piece it together. Still, with this final presentation of power, she could finally be absolutely sure that Lexa was the commander of the grounders.

 

Clarke hopes at some point they’ll actually say it out loud though. She still doesn’t want to broach the subject and seem impetuous (or stupid)…but she also doesn’t want to avoid it and seem complacent (or stupid).

 

Lexa glances at her only briefly, no apparent regard for her lack of surprise, instead focusing on Nyko struggling to his feet. Though he’ll probably brush her off, she hurries over to help him, unwilling to let him tear her stitches just yet. There’s an angry set to his face, but he lets her help him to his feet before shaking away her hands.

 

Knowing more of the story now (or at least what Nyko believes the story is), she takes the brush off in stride and doesn’t let it bother her. She quickly takes a step away from him, giving him space, and turns to see Lexa’s eyes lingering over her impassively.

 

Clarke meets them, not defiant but unwilling to look away. Lexa just tilts her head slightly and turns back to Nyko. She starts talking to him in her language. The tone is questioning, but Clarke can hear the authority in the words even if she doesn’t understand their meaning.

 

With bowed head, he answers her. Clarke grits her teeth, wishing she could understand them. It’s their native language, and she’s more prisoner than guest, so there’s no reason to speak English just for her benefit.

 

This is what she tells herself anyway. She refuses to get frustrated and focuses on what they’re saying, hoping to at least figure out if she’s facing good news or bad news. Unfortunately, aside from the odd word that sounds slightly familiar, she’s got nothing. One thing Clarke can tell about the commander, she’s wears an excellent mask.

 

Even with a young, possibly dying girl two feet away, it’s almost impossible to read Lexa. Her tone isn’t angry, just cold and somewhat curious. Her face settled into bored disinterest. The only thing hinting at interest is the flicker of her eyes ever so slightly in the girl’s direction.

 

Clarke can’t help but be curious about her, the leader who looks barely old enough to be a woman. She saw the restrained fury before; there is something remarkable in this sudden calmness. The men, all twice her size, all look to her with respect and deference; Clarke wonders what she did to earn it.

 

Finally, Lexa finishes talking with Nyko and turns towards Clarke. Unlike Nyko or the guards, she doesn’t scowl or glare when looking at Clarke. Her face remains disinterestedly unimpressed, with only the slightest curl to her lips, as if she is utterly unconcerned with the outcome.

 

It’s a façade, of course. You can’t be a leader and command people with so much respect for you, and just not care. Clarke killed 300 of Lexa’s soldiers and then brought back Lexa’s mentor with news of the mountain. Clarke has no idea what is going on in Lexa’s head, but she knows it is something.

 

“I have talked with emissaries of the Sky People,” she says, the title spoken with distaste. Which means they probably didn’t make a great impression…again. Clarke doesn’t say anything, keeping her eyes locked on Lexa’s. “There will be no alliance with them.”

 

“So, you’ll waste time and lives fighting my people while the mountain destroys us both?” Her words are clipped, but not angry. Lexa has some sort of play here, (this can’t be it) but, if she doesn’t, it’s to her best benefit to try something. She needs to offer something, prove that they are useful in some way, if she wants her people to survive.

 

Whoever these “emissaries” were, they didn’t leave a good impression, but it’s not they’re fault. Whoever they were, they weren’t there in the beginning… they haven’t learned the way the ground works yet. Clarke has lost people, has shed blood and tears, to learn how this works.

 

She has to make it right.

 

Lexa narrows her eyes… slightly. It’s almost unnoticeable, and Clarke can’t help but wonder how she managed to make herself so impassive, so impervious. She wouldn’t call it strength exactly, but Clarke wishes she could make herself look so unaffected by the world around her.

 

“Your people only seem to want peace after they have caused disaster upon the lands,” Lexa responded with a voice that could be called sarcastic on a good day.  “Your people are nothing more than a hiccup in an ancient war. I wish I didn’t have to waste soldiers in the fight…but blood must have blood, and your people keep bleeding mine.”

 

Clarke doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have any magical words that would somehow make this situation even a little bit better. All she can really say is…

 

“Please.”

 

It’s a weakness, this anguished pleading. It’s hopelessness and submission, and she can’t even imagine the grounders respecting her for it much less listening to her.  It’s all she has left. “Please, you have to let us at least try to make this right.”

 

“I don’t have to do anything.” There is not a single crack in Lexa’s steely expression; her voice is still utterly cool. It only makes Clarke even more aware of how broken and emotional her own words sound. It riles her up, sparks the part of her that is defiant and angry and practically fearless, when Clarke is pleading and vulnerable and honest, and Lexa responds like a snotty teenager.

 

“We aren’t bleeding you! My people bloodied your nose in a fistfight YOU started, and you can’t or won’t look past it when we could be your only hoping in defeating your real enemy,” she snarls, fully aware of how insulting the words will be. “Your real enemy has been living off the blood of your people, experimenting on them, and turning them into monsters. With us, your people have a chance to actually fight back, instead you cowardly decide to attack a group you think can’t defend themselves.”

 

Clarke takes a step forward, her eyes glaring into Lexa’s as if there were no ready warriors at her side.

 

“But we can, and we will. It won’t be our first choice, but we will fight for our survival, just like you would. Maybe we win or maybe we lose, but we’ll take a lot of you with us. If that happens, the only people who will really win will be in the mountain, laughing as we destroy each other.”

 

Lexa’s expression doesn’t falter, the indifferent glare seemingly set in stone, but there is a glint in her eyes - a fire - that Clarke didn’t see a second ago.

 

“Enough!” The words are clipped and forceful, and Clarke can see the way the girl’s hand grips at the blade at her side. But she doesn’t draw it, doesn’t even seem to notice her own action. “If I could believe every drip of honey from your mouth, every arrogant posturing and thinly veiled threat, then I would not hesitate to align with your sky people. But we do not have the luxury of trust. You invade, you fight, you burn, leaving nothing in your wake. Yet, at the first sign of real war you turn tail and beg for a chance. How can I trust that your people would not turn on us at the first offer from the mountain, that they would listen to me in the middle of the war. How can I trust that they would follow you into a truce in the first place when they don’t even know where you are.”

 

“I do not trust you, Clarke of the sky people, but if it was an alliance just to you I might be willing. You have proven yourself an adept general in war and your action in the mountain and with Anya speak to your strength of spirit. It is not you I question, but the people you speak of, but cannot speak for.”

 

There was never a change in tone or volume. Lexa never shifted in unease or adjusted her stance. But the words are spoken quickly, spit out sharply with a quiet aggression as if each word was meant to be the last. And as Lexa meets her eyes there is a hesitance that make’s Clarke wonder how much she meant to show.

 

And Clarke chooses her words carefully. She chooses her actions even more so.

 

She drops to her knees, hard with no grace, and maintains eye contact. The problem isn’t Clarke. Lexa knows that if everything worked out, aligning with the sky people is the best bet. But she also knows, and Clarke can even agree in the quiet of her own mind, that everything won’t work out. There are too many possible negative outcomes to risk on the few positive.

 

And, with everything as it is, Clarke can’t change those odds – not by herself. She needs time; more than that, she needs to get her people to prove themselves enough to at least get a chance.

 

So she rest on her knees, kneeling to their leader. She is covered with their blood, drawn by her own people, and the remains of her own tears.

 

“You’re right; I can’t speak for them. They don’t even know I’m alive – and I can’t tell you if they will really care. I can’t make any promises or guarantees, and I can’t make any plans. But I can give you possibilities.”

 

The second Clarke knelt before her, there was a shift in Lexa’s expression. But Clarke isn’t familiar enough with her or grounders in general to read it. But as she speaks, Lexa tilts her head just slightly, just enough to convey… something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t stop; so Clarke keeps talking.

 

“You’re right not to risk your armies and your people on a group you can’t trust. But it doesn’t have to be an all or nothing situation. You don’t have to trust us to use us… you don’t have to trust them to use me. We aren’t attacking because we’re hateful or destructive. We do it because we’re scared and confused. Like wild animals in the woods, we’re dangerous, but with the right knowledge we’ll be useful. But my first priority isn’t them – it’s the people in the mountain I had to leave behind; the people I was left to die with. I will do whatever you want to get them out, just like I know you want your people out. But the others that just fell…” Clarke loses her words for a second.

 

She can see the hidden interest on Lexa’s face and lets it bolster her next argument. The words are hard to find, hard to say, because she’s not sure how truthful they are. Lying doesn’t bother her – it’s never bothered her, but especially not when the alternative is death for so many. What worries her is that the words might hold more truth than she’d like…and what that would say about her.

 

But she needs to be persuasive. She needs to be convincing. She needs to be… sincere. So Clarke digs deep and says words that were way more true than she wishes they were.

 

“I don’t know if anyone who fell cares about me. I don’t know if there is anyone I care about left. I’m linked to them; I feel for them. They are my people and I don’t want them to die. But they left me to die, saw me and the others as an unfortunate but necessary casualty. I refuse to see my friends the same way, even if the people who fell still will.”

 

She lets the words settle in the air, lets her hesitance and disgust and anger settle heavily. Gives Lexa a minute to read into what she said, to really hear what she didn’t say – the truth she couldn’t bring herself to say.

 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend – but that only works if you understand the way they act and think. We don’t need to be friends. But I can help you understand us, help you figure out how we think. I can help you understand how to convince them to do things your way and how to tell if they are being truthful. You don’t have to trust them, but understanding means you gain a level of control. You can profit from their presence with a much more manageable risk. I don’t have to speak with them if you don’t want me to. You can keep in a cell and starve me if you need to. Just don’t make up your mind just yet. Take some time to figure out you’re new enemy to see if they would be better off corralled than slaughtered.”

 

It sounds harsh. It’s sound like she’s offering to be the middleman in the hostile takeover of her people. But her options are clear.

 

Best case scenario: Lexa allows it and allows Clarke contact with her people. They all come together, and it fosters understanding and leads to peace, saving people from the mountain, and a happy ending.

 

Less great scenario: Clarke basically becomes a traitorous slave, and her people end up manipulated and taken advantage of, but alive. They still free the mountain… hopefully... and eventually things get better and they integrate into one people? Maybe?

 

Not the worst scenario: Lexa deliberates but ultimately decides to slaughter everyone. The deliberation gives her people a little more time to arm themselves or run hopefully. Her people probably die in the mountain.

 

Worst case: Clarke dies right here and now. No deliberation, Lexa sends her army at first light. You win some, you lose some.

 

Lexa stares down at her pathetic figure. There is a quiet intelligence in those eyes, something that Clarke wouldn’t have expected in a warrior once upon a time. Something she is depending on. After all, Clarke certainly won’t put her money on the commander’s gentle soul swaying her.

 

Eventually, she seems to come to a decision. Lexa swallows visibly and turns away. She speaks to the large man from before, the words quick and intelligible to Clarke’s ignorant ears. Still, there is a sort of fluid grace in the language when it comes from Lexa that Clarke can’t really ignore.

 

It doesn’t sound nearly as nice out of the big man’s mouth, but that could be because his words are shrouded in gruff anger as he glares spitefully at her. It’s just as understandable, though.

 

Lexa interrupts him with a quiet forcefulness that Clarke can’t help but find impressive. She remembers when they first landed (and even later) when she had to shout just to be heard and even then Bellamy’s words held more sway. When Lexa speaks, she doesn’t even raise her voice, and a man twice her size looks to the ground like a chastened child.

 

Lexa turns back to Clarke with what could possibly be something resembling a smirk on her lips (in the right lighting). It disappears immediately. She steps closer to Clarke, towering over her, and yanks her to her feet in one quick motion. Clarke stumbles backwards half a step, hiding a wince at the tingling legs covered in mud. Lexa doesn’t move away.

 

“Tomorrow, we will leave to your people’s encampment after the second meal. A small group arriving as night falls will not be noticed. It will give us time to watch and plan. My army will come the next day. Gustus will take you to Anya. She dragged you her, she can babysit you for the night…and will show you where to bathe,” Lexa states, the same cool detachment lining her words.

 

Words that don’t really show where her heads at. But Clarke, making a note of big angry’s name, can ignore the mystery and the insult. She made her play and know better than to aggravate Lexa. She needs to let it run its course and just keep her mouth shut…except.

 

Clarke looks at the small body on the cot still struggling and just can’t stop herself.

 

“I should stay her.” She just can’t stop herself ever. “I need to make sure she makes it through the night.

 

Gustus scowls harshly at her for speaking up, but Lexa, briefly, actually looks like she approves of the response.

 

“You’ll learn, Clarke,” Lexa says cooly, no hint of that approval in her voice, “that when I speak, people listen. I told Gustus to take you, and he does. I tell you to go with him…and you go. Understood?” Somehow, it doesn’t sound like a question.

 

And yet…Clarke can’t bring herself to move. She hesitates, sparing another glance at the body. Gustus growls and takes a menacing step forward, probably read to drag her to Anya by her hair, but Lexa puts a single hand in the air and he freezes.

 

Lexa still spare little emotion, but does give the body one slow glance. And sighs.

 

“Nyko has already assured me that he can handle it from here. She is…stable, and he is well enough to keep her that way. And you would not be any good for her in your state. So go.” And Clarke goes.

 

Not because of the assurance (although it certainly helped), and not because of the glowering hulk standing a few feet away. No, it was the undercurrent of gentleness in Lexa’s words that shocked her feet into movement.

 

Out of the tent, Gustus put a heavy hand on her should and roughly directed her away, not even letting her glance back as her shock left. He just squeezed tighter and increased his speed, causing her to almost stumble and relighting the burning pain of her own wound. She couldn’t hold back a painful hiss, but Gustus didn’t seem to notice or care.

 

After a couple minutes of walking, he stopped suddenly, almost pulling her off her feet. None to gently, he turned her around and pushed her against a tree. She swallowed harshly, noticing almost against her will that they were out of eyesight of anyone else.

 

And remembered that nobody would help her even if they saw.

 

But she took a breath and remained calm. She hadn’t interacted with him personally, at least not as himself, but Lexa had given him an order. Clarke fully believed that he would not go against that, not with how quick he froze at a simple gesture for Lexa or the way she spoke over him.

 

So she swallowed her nerves and met his eyes as fearlessly as possible. She met nothing but distain.

 

“If you try to hurt her or lead her to harm, I will make you wish for a thousand deaths,” he growled, and Clarke (although very intimidated) almost wanted to laugh. He was afraid of her hurting Lexa, when the other girl had an army of savage (and not) warriors at her beck and call. But Clarke didn’t…she wasn’t sure she’d still be alive if she had. Instead, she just nods, not trusting her mouth to not get her killed. He scoffs and grabs her arm tight enough to bruise, pulling her back into a fast walk.

 

It’s not too long afterwards that they meet up with Anya waiting outside a tent. Clarke wonders if this was how Lexa always planned their meeting to end.

 

The older woman is standing nonchalantly, arms crossed over chest and an unfamiliar ease in her posture. She is watching them before Clarke even notices her. When they get close, she drops her arm and walks to meet them, eyes flickering over Clarke quickly before looking to Gustus.

 

Almost possessively, Anya reaches and pulls Clarke from Gustus’ grasp and to her side. Her grip is much gentler, but still firm, and the two share a quick, tense-sounding that Clarke can’t understand before Gustus turns and leaves. He doesn’t spare Clarke a single glance the entire time.

 

Anya lets go of her arm before he is out of sight, crossing her arms again. She looks the younger girl over, and Clarke can’t help but feel like she’s being measured up…and lacking.

 

With a small sigh, Anya turns and walks into the tent with nothing but a quiet “Come.”

 

Clarke goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UP NEXT!
> 
> (hopefully)
> 
> Clarke and Anya interact, someone get's possessive, plus horses!


End file.
